We meet in the Starbucks on Jean-Talon, at the edge of Little Italy. From the moment you recognize me, your dark eyes hold this intensity. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, deep and penetrating. It’s hard to look away. I get a reprieve while you order, then I feel heat rising in my groin as you approach.
I know what you want.
We make polite conversation, talking about our jobs, my stalled ambitions as a writer. I can’t say that I write without apologizing; I have nothing to show for it, how dare I call myself a writer?
You’re older, more accomplished, with a mortgage and a career. A Real Adult.
I’ve just moved in to my first apartment on my own at age 29. I’m a year divorced and drowning in debt, student loans for a degree I never finished.
“Welcome to Parc Ex,” you say.
“Thanks.” No more roommates, just my two cats in a studio. Sure there’s no oven or bathtub; my very first shithole isn’t perfect, and it’s waiting to get its cherry popped.
When we exhaust the small talk and our cups are empty, we head outside. I zip up my hoodie against the autumn chill.
We walk together out of Little Italy, down Jean-Talon, and find more to talk about. It’s easier without your eyes fucking their way into mine. I start to relax, and I think of my empty apartment.
We come to a stop by Tim Hortons. This is where you turn to go home.
“Wanna come back to my place?” The words are out of my mouth before I fully consider the thought.
You turn toward me and there are those eyes again, turned up to eleven, and I feel my crotch stir. I smirk and lead the way. I know a shortcut through an alley, light glaring overhead, and I wish I had the courage to kiss you beneath it.
Then we’re in front of my building. I turn the key in the lock of the front door, walk us down to the end of the corridor, #6, to the right. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” I ask as we enter; there are pills in my medicine cabinet. I’m allergic too, but they’re all the family I have here.
Our lips come together as soon as the door is shut, and it’s everything your eyes have promised. I feel my breath leave in a rush, I relish the taste of you, a hint of cinnamon from your drink. The heat of your tongue makes my head spin.
I reach inside your leather jacket and up your shirt, tracing my fingers up your spine to your shoulders. Your skin is warm, my face cold from the November air but your breath is hot. You are voracious.
I push you down onto my bed as soon as you slip out of your jacket. I reach for your belt, seeing the straining bulge in your pants. I want to taste your cock, to free it, and as soon as your belt comes undone, I strip you to the ankles and close my mouth over your shaft.
I love the sigh of a man engulfed in one swift move.
Your weight shifts as you take off your shirt, and I raise my head only to remove mine, dick-hungry and slobbering. As my head bobs, I slip out of my jeans and boxers, letting my own trapped penis emerge, giving it a squeeze.
Your hands move from the sides of my face to my shoulders, down my back to my hairy ass. You give each of my cheeks a slow squeeze, then a light slap; you’re testing my tolerance. I grunt, my tone encouraging.
You deliver another slap, harder. Good.
I straighten myself and kiss you deep, stroking your wet cock as I reach behind you. My desk is also my nightstand, and there are condoms in the drawer, condoms I made sure to get from the grocery store before I expected company. You take the package from me and tear it open; I grab a bottle of lube as you unroll the latex over your dick. Once it’s covered overed and coated in a layer of slippery fluid, I position myself over you and lower myself.
I love the moan of a man as I inch my way down his cock.
You rock your hips against me, and we find a rhythm between the two of us. I kiss you hungrily as we fuck, breathlessly, bouncing up and down and feeling you deep inside me. I want to grind myself against you hard until I make a hot and sticky mess.
We roll over so that you’re on top, the bed tilts, and we sprawl onto the floor. Too much weight at the foot, who designed this fucking frame? A quick laugh and we’re back up on the bed, you’re inside me again, my head against the pillows as you drive into me, deeper now.
A sharp slap against my ass, then I pull you close and press my face against yours. I’m almost panting with the force of your fucking, and I’m pumping my cock furiously in my hand. I need this, I need this now, and you’re so good…
And I’m coming in spurts, my body shaking with my orgasm. You pull out of me and rip off the condom, positioning yourself to add your load to mine. You grunt as the hot drops join my cooling semen, and I rub the mess into my skin as I kiss the outside of your thigh.
I let the shudders subside and squeeze my asshole tight, feeling the absence you’ve left. “My shower is just there,” I say, pointing to the open door. The other leads to the closet, barely large enough for my things.
“I’ll shower at home,” you say. “Thanks.” Your shirt is already on, and we kiss, me careful not to lean too close and get any of our mess on your clothes. “See ya around.”
I let the door close behind you without locking it, taking a moment to lie back and revel in the first sex in my brand new place. Cherry popped.